The Salquedor Grasslands training arena. It had been quite a while since the mercenary Lyon had last visited this place, that one occasion having seen him defeated by an excellent sparring partner. Now, the grim and somewhat sarcastic soldier stood smiling, watching the enthusiastic men battle their hardest, wooden training swords clashing against each others dull and rounded sides. Lyon strode forward confidently, throwing his cloak to to the left, where it floated to the ground, laying on the grass. He reached down and picked up a wooden sword from a small pile of them placed nearby. Lyon weighed it in his hand, and confident with the feel of it, quickly spun it and slashed experimentally. The move was executed without flaw. The satisfied mercenary nodded, took a deep breath, and walked into the throng of fighting men.

"Let's see what you guys can do!" he shouted as he took a fighting stance. The men glanced at each other, and then with fierce smiles, began to circle around. Lyon watched the enemy in front of him while also looking out of the corner of his eye, making sure that none of those at his side got too close. He relied on his other senses to catch anyone coming up from behind him.

For a moment, no one moved. Then, to Lyon's left, a bald, wiry man lunged at him, his sword held up high. Lyon twisted and dropped to his knees, placing the momentum of the move into his swing. The wooden blade smashed into the man's legs. He buckled reflexively and dropped to the ground. The others took advantage of their buddy's move to come forward, weapons at the ready. They had learned from his mistake, and were being cautious. Lyon watched them carefully, searching for the slightest twitch that would give away the next attack.

Two in front, one to his left, one to his right, and one hanging back behind the others to prevent him from running through the gap. Lyon began to back up, parrying the shots that were thrown at him. They were doing nothing bu pushing him back, hoping that he would fall and give them an opening with which to finish him. Unfortunately for this lot, Lyon had survived a life of battles for a reason. It hadn't been luck. It was the result of skill.

Suddenly, haphazardly, he lunged to his right, swinging his sword high at the surprised man. The weapon smashed into the side of his head, and he crumpled to the ground. Lyon then jumped back, moving his sword quickly to parry the blades that were slashing at him. Lyon began retreating again, eyes scanning hastily for an opening. He saw one, and braced himself for the move. Once again, he moved recklessly, charging forward with his sword in a parry position. He ducked down low and ran headlong into the man standing in front of him. His shoulder caught him in the stomach and lifted him over Lyon's shoulder. The mercenary pushed back, and the man was sent flying. He then brought his sword up into a diagonal angle, and thrust, receiving a pained grunt from one of the approaching attackers. The moment of hesitation was enough for Lyon to strike him between the legs with his wooden sword. Obviously, the man went down, his eyes watering.

He looked around for the other two, and saw that they were retreating. Lyon had to admit, he was relieved. His forehead was covered in sweat, and his body screamed for rest. He sat down on the grass, panting heavily, his eyes closed as a steady throbbing occurred in his head.

It was dark now. The sun had set, but the training grounds were still well lit with lanterns. The men still practiced their technique. Many sparred in large arenas where it was every man for himself. Others ran simple exercises meant to increase ones reflects and hand speed in combat. Others trained for endurance. It was a very manly tough bunch of men that attracted several women who liked to stare at all of the young available hunks.

“Hey darling,” one called to a pale looking warrior who carried a mysterious dark katana that gave off a nasty depressing feeling to its wielder. He wore a long black cape that looked like it had been made out of the hides of bats and sewn together with magic. The warrior although not impressively strong had a strange intimidating appearance. Some who felt tough enough laughed at his skinny body, but if they had known he was a vampire, they would have held their tongues.

Seraph was his name, and he had come to train with the men. He walked over to an arena just in time to see one man whip several others. He was quite impressed with his moves at instantly knew he had to spar with this man. It was then that he noticed who the man was. It was an old friend of his named Patrick.

“Patrick!” Seraph called to him climbing into the large ring, “you are quite skilled. Will you do the honors of fighting with me. I may not look like much, but I know how to hold a sword.”

Someone called from below, "That is Lyon you moron."

Seraph was quite emberessed with himself. He could see that the differences in them, now that he was level with him. "I am sorry," he apologized, "but still, will you fight me?"

Lyon was amazed to see that the sun had all but disappeared, and that now the only thing lighting the training arena were torches and lanterns. How had the time passed so fast? This meant that he was going to have to stay the night here, seeing as how it was far too dangerous to travel at night. Bandits roamed the grasslands during the dark hours, preying upon those unfortunate enough to cross their path.

“Patrick!” someone shouted at him. Lyon blinked and looked around, confused. Was someone talking to him? Indeed, a pale man came in front of him, and said in a serious tone, “you are quite skilled. Will you do the honors of fighting with me? I may not look like much, but I know how to hold a sword.” Lyon stared at him in confusion.

"That is Lyon you moron." Someone shouted over to them. Lyon grinned to himself. Patrick? He had never been called that before.

"I am sorry," the man said hastily, "but still, will you fight me?"

Lyon gave him a quick look-over. He was lean, not all that large, but Lyon knew that size wasn't very important when it came to armed combat. No, the most important things were technique and reflex. This man looked like he could be an extremely skilled opponent.

The mercenary slowly raised, the wooden sword still in his hand. He nodded to the stranger, his eyes still scanning him for any sign of an advantage he might have over him. "It would be my pleasure to spar with you." Lyon said. He reached down and grabbed a training sword that had been left on the field. Tossing it to the man, he said, "I hope you don't mind using wooden swords? I find it easier to spar when I don't have to worry about getting myself cut to pieces."

He brought his weapon up in front of him in a defensive position, ready to fight.